


A Few Very Good Mistakes

by louisandthealien



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Chicago, Famous Louis, Grinding, M/M, Non-Famous Harry, Strangers to Lovers, deep dish pizza, louis just misses his boyband so much, zouis friendship for a second
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 07:49:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11962959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisandthealien/pseuds/louisandthealien
Summary: He almost wishes there were a better story."Fucked up pop star ends five day bender by wandering into a dive bar alone and passing out in public."That would've generated press, he thinks, and if there's one thing that's constantly on his mind (or more accurately, on the mind of everyone else around him) it's that all press is good press, and good press is good press but bad press is great press.Besides, he's 25 and trying to do the whole transition from boyband to solo pop star. He's pretty sure a press-fueled meltdown is, like, a right of passage.The truth, alas, is a whole lot more boring.---Louis falls asleep in Harry's bar. Harry takes him home to hang out.





	A Few Very Good Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello!!! Me, the queen of being unable to write anything in a timely manner, finished this!! Yayy!!!
> 
> Thank you youwilll aka Ally for enduring my constant screams about this fic for the past two months (culminating in the non-stop scream fest that was the past 10 days as I sprinted to finish this) and for doing her best to make me write and for continuously calling me out when i make up words. I love u very much. No more exchanges and fests. No more.
> 
> ****
> 
> This fic is for the MITAM Fest and based off of "Hey Angel." Enjoy!

✮✮✮

_Yeah, I see you at the bar,_

_At the edge of my bed_

_Backseat of my car,_

_In the back of my head_

_I come alive when I hear your voice_

_It's a beautiful sound,_

_It's a beautiful noise_

 

✮✮✮

He almost wishes there were a better story. 

_ "Fucked up pop star ends five day bender by wandering into a dive bar alone and passing out in public." _   
That would've generated press, he thinks, and if there's one thing that's constantly on his mind (or more accurately, on the mind of everyone else around him) it's that all press is good press, and good press is good press but bad press is  _ great press. _   
Besides, he's 25 and trying to do the whole transition from boyband to solo pop star. He's pretty sure a press-fueled meltdown is, like, a right of passage. 

The truth, alas, is a whole lot more  boring .

✮✮✮

Louis comes-to face down on a hard surface when something jostles his shoulder and a soft voice says, “Sorry, bud. Closing time.” He startles upright, only to realize his cheek is covered in something sticky and—

His heart starts thudding in his chest.

He has no idea where he fucking is.

He remembers getting off a plane in an airport in a city in the United States. He remembers sitting in the same make of Big Important Black Car that he always travels around in. He remembers Eliza handing him his room key and security walking him up to his room, making sure he got inside safe like a good little boy. He remembers sitting on a pristine white bed— king size, of course— and being unable to just go to sleep, rules of avoiding jetlag and all that. He remembers flicking through room service, only to find the same perfectly fine array of hotel food that he’s eaten every night for the past six months. He remembers wondering vaguely if he should text Zayn or Niall to see how they’re doing, maybe find something to watch on TV.

 

He also remembers getting the sudden overwhelming urge to throw his phone at the wall...and then doing just that. 

He remembers being both relieved and vaguely alarmed that there wasn’t anyone stationed in the hallway for what must have been the first time ever when he’d pulled on a hoodie and slipped out of his room without a second thought.

He remembers literally just...leaving.

He does  _ not _ , however, remember the name of the hotel he was staying in, nor does he remember the path he took to get to whatever bar he’s ended up in. 

He definitely doesn’t remember fucking falling asleep at the bar.

_ Holy shit he fell asleep at this bar. _

He automatically reaches for his phone, coming up empty, of course because  _ no, _ apparently this is not just a terrible nightmare, he really  _ did _ smash his phone against the wall in a fit of  _ “I’m so bored and I don’t know how to do this without the others here with me and maybe I’m not as cracked out for this as I’d thought” _ angst and he really  _ did _ wander out alone in an unknown city with no regard for anything at all. 

The thudding in his chest starts climbing up his throat. 

The voice from before speaks and Louis startles again, completely disoriented, only to finally take in the boy standing in front of him on the other side of the bar, watching him cautiously. “Sorry to, um...wake you?” the boy says with an awkward smile, and Louis realizes it’s the same guy that served him when he first came in— the curly haired one that had stared too long at his ID, glancing back and forth betwee n the plastic and the man sat before him with a hood pulled low over his eyes until Louis had finally mumbled, “Yeah,” to the unasked but inevitable question clearly running through his mind:  _ “Are you—?”  _

He’s tall and green eyed and unbelievably attractive— the sort of boy that Louis always ends up thinking about for days afterwards, ends up adding to his collection of alternate lives in which he’s normal and happy and free to do whatever he wants with his life.

And he’s staring at Louis with polite am usement. 

“Are you alright?” he asks cheekily when Louis doesn’t respond, clearly misinterpreting the chain of events that have led them both this place. “How much did you have before you came in?”

Louis stares at him, at a total loss. “I… nothing?”

At that, the boy’s smile fades, worry lines quickly taking its place. “Nothing?” he repeats, voice lilting and concerned. “Do you feel alright? Could someone have put something in your— ” He looks around as if someone might somehow still be lurking despite the emptiness of the room,

Louis cuts him off before the poor guy can work himself up. “No,  _ no—  _  I, um. I just— ” He clears his throat, and when he speaks, he doesn’t think he even sounds  _ half  _ as confused as he feels. “I think I just…” His hands do some sort of strange circling motion that he immediately regrets. “Fell asleep?” 

The boy just stares at him, blatantly incredulous, and Louis suddenly realizes he still has his stupid hood on, so he shoves it back quickly, cheeks flushing. “I just got in from…” He trails off awkwardly. He has no idea where he was yesterday. Milan, maybe? That doesn’t seem right. “I just got in from Europe,” he finally says. “Jetlag,” he adds, as if that could possibly explain how one could fall asleep sober and alone at a bar.

The boy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  _ “Oh.  _ Must’ve been quite the trip, I guess.” He’s trying to be polite, Louis can tell, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lip gives him away.

Louis thinks now would be the perfect time to dissolve into the floor and never reappear.

He means to say something like, “Can I get the check, please?” or even, “Wow, this is very fucking weird,” but then the boy licks his lips, all casual and clearly out of habit, and it’s so distracting—  so suddenly, sharply,  _ overwhelming _ distracting—  that what comes out instead is a stupid, “What city is this?”

In his defense, he’s really very tired.

The boy folds his arms across the black shirt stretched across his chest, and Louis can tell he’s fighting back a chuckle when he says, “Chicago…” 

_ Chicago. _ Jesus Christ. Louis exhales slowly and takes in the empty bar around them. The lights are on, bathing the poster-covered walls in familiar, yellowy Last Call light. Another thing that’s pretty much the same all the world over, apparently.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” the boy asks again after a moment, smile dimming a little. 

Louis looks up at the ceiling and then down at the ground. That’s a very good question, he thinks.

For one thing, he’s definitely dead meat the second he gets back to the hotel. And for another, he’s so exhausted he thinks he might actually being hearing colors.  _ Furthermore, _ he has no phone on him and no relevant numbers memorized because it’s 2017 and no one other than idiots such as Louis Tomlinson go out without their cellphones. It’s dark and late, and he’s, well, really and honestly just pretty much fucked.

But… there’s  _ also _ a terribly cute boy in front of him, and he doesn’t seem like the crazy fan sort of type,  _ so. _

He takes a deep breath and steels himself. “I, um… I actually don’t have my phone on me,” he says awkwardly. “And I don’t really… I don’t know where I’m staying.”

He doesn’t include the part where he’d rather sleep in a dumpster than face the wrath of everyone at the hotel when he gets back, of course.

The boy tuts and grabs a rag from behind the bar, slapping it down on the counter right in front of where Louis’ sitting. “Is that your idea of a pick-up line?” he asks airly. On another person, it might come off as cocky, but Louis can see the teasing glimmer in his eyes, even under the fluorescents of the end the night lights.

Louis sighs, running a hand over his face and letting his palm rest against his still sticky cheek. “Unfortunately,” he chuckles despite himself, shaking his head, “I’m  _ actually _ just that sort of mess this evening, it looks like.”

The rag in the boy’s hand stops, and he takes a step back. “Well, shit,” he says, giving Louis a long, hard once over, clearly still a little bit skeptical. In the end, though, he must see something that convinces him. He tosses the rag over his shoulder and places both hands on the counter, leaning up against it. “My friend—  it sounds like  _ you _ need a drink.”

✮✮✮

The boy’s name is Harry Styles. He’s 23 years old (exactly 2 years and 38 days younger than Louis.) He studies business part time and manages this bar full time, which he claims isn’t actually as much as it sounds. He lives in a studio apartment that he affectionately refers to as A Genuine Shit Hole, and he doesn’t mind all the late nights at the bar because he doesn’t have to be at class until the afternoon each day anyways. 

He pours Louis a rum and coke without asking and lets him hang out while he goes about wiping down all the bottles and storing the leftover garnishes. He rambles on about school, and work, and life in Chicago as a Denver ex-pat.

He doesn’t reference the fact that Louis is— whatever he is.

(¼ of the world’s biggest boy band, on the verge of starting his very first solo tour, following his very first solo  _ promo  _ tour from hell that has had his face plastered on every late night show and billboard for months.)

Louis wonders obligatorily if he’s a dick for assuming that Harry knows who he is, but it’s sort of a moot point because. Well. He  _ does.  _ Louis knows that he does. He has seven years of dealing with fans, even from fans with the best of intentions.

And, luckily, it seems like Harry has just that. The best of intentions.

He’s perched on the back counter now, opposite Louis. Shoulders hunched, he props his elbows up on his knees and cocks his head, apparently weighing all the options. 

“We could call you an Uber and drive around in the area?” he offers. “Maybe you’ll recognize the place if we drive past it?” 

Everything in the bar’s been cleaned twice over, and although Harry doesn’t  _ look _ particularly tired, it has to be at least 2 AM, and Louis knows this is the point in the night where he pulls himself together and faces the music. Owns up to the fact that he’d been selfish and rash and that everyone’s probably been losing their fucking minds over him for the past few hours.

He opens his mouth to say, “Okay,” but nothing comes out, and he’s left staring at the boy in front of him, this beautiful, talkative,  _ kind _ boy, and all he can think is:  _ please don’t make me go back there. _

As a grown man generally pretty decent about owning up to his mistakes, it’s not the most reasonable or rational line of thought. But.

He doesn’t know what it means that Harry seems to track the trajectory of all of that. That he must read whatever desperation is crawling up Louis’ neck and splaying out across his face. Must relate to whatever bewildering pull that Louis is suddenly feeling for this complete and total stranger.

As a last ditch effort, as a final prayer to whatever God or spirit or karma that kicked him in the balls enough to even get him out of the hotel this evening in the first place, Louis begs:  _ please. I’m not done meeting him yet. _

As it is, Harry must be alright with whatever it is he finds on Louis’ face, because he leans back against the wall behind him and thumbs at the corner of his lip. 

“Or... if you’re looking for a place to crash, I don’t live too far from here.”

Louis grabs that rope without even looking.

✮✮✮

This might not have been Louis’ finest plan. That much is evident from the moment they leave the bar.

Harry pulls on a dark grey sweater two sizes too big for him and lights up a cigarette the moment they step outside. The world around them is cast in orange city light, the chilly street made hazy and dim, and there Harry stands, like he’s been cut out of a dream and stamped onto the page before Louis.

It’s the sort of sight that’s almost too sharp around the edges, and Louis might only just be meeting this boy, but something about this moment seems like it might be pressed into his chest forever.

It’s a ridiculous thought. Every aspect of whatever is happening right now is ridiculous— that he fell asleep in that bar, that he’s going home with this boy, that he’s standing here in the middle of the night in October, waxing poetic about the angle of this stranger’s jaw and the way the sleeves of his sweater hide his hands when they drop to his sides.

All he’d wanted was to get out of that fucking hotel and  _ do something  _ for the night. 

And now there’s this.

Now there’s this boy named Harry.

It’s ridiculous, and Louis should find a way back to the hotel because the only thing that will come out of this is a nice night and a  _ nice to meet you _ and a  _ nice knowing you _ in the end. Which in and of itself is a stupidly heavy and unnecessarily forward thought to be having about a boy he met an hour ago, but. That doesn’t stop the thought from flooding his mind.

He doesn’t go home, of course. He just pulls the hood of his sweatshirt back up instead. 

“It’s like a twenty minute walk,” Harry says, pointing over his shoulder down the lamp lit street. “I usually take the red line, but I don’t know if…” The end of the thought gets lost as he raises the cigarette to his lips, but Louis nods, thinking he knows what Harry means.

They still haven’t really acknowledged it. The weird two way mirror that Louis’ life always seems to let people in on. 

_ I don’t know if you’ll be seen.  _

_ Would it matter if you were seen? _

_ What happens when you get seen? _

Louis doesn’t really feel like acknowledging the answers to any of those questions, so it’s lucky that Harry trails off, letting this smoke fill that particular silence. 

Instead, he asks, “Can I have one?” gesturing at the cigarette between Harry’s lips.

If Harry’s at all surprised by the request—  God, how many fucking times has someone pulled that.  _ Aren’t you a singer or something?—  _  he doesn’t show it. Just digs out his pack and offers one up cheerfully

“To answer your question,” Louis finally says, accepting the lighter Harry hands him, “It’s the middle of the night on a…?”

“Tuesday,” Harry supplies, amused.

Louis cheerses the lit cigarette. “It’s the middle of the night on a Tuesday.” He takes a long drag. “I think it’ll be okay.” He really has no idea if that’s true.

The corner of Harry’s mouth turns up, dark pink. “I’m getting the impression that you don’t really care.”

Louis just laughs. He’s not sure if he cares or not, to be honest. He thinks he’s too tired.

But, God, does it feel good to be out of that fucking hotel room.

“Why?” Harry asks, stamping out his cigarette on top of a trash can. He crosses his hands across his chest, bracing himself against the light chill of the night, and there’s a split second where the street empties, the last of the cars speeding off at the turning green light, and all that’s left in front of Louis is the boy in front of him, drowning in his sweater and staring at Louis like he’s ready to laugh at whatever he says.

It shouldn’t be such a captivating sight.

Harry raises an eyebrow expectantly and turns over his shoulder. 

Off he goes. Off Louis follows.

“Why what?”

“Why’re you so glad to be out?”

Louis exhales slowly through his nose. “Oh, you know...” He follows Harry down the stairs of the L stop and lets himself be ushered through the turnstiles and into the dank, humid air of the station. “The usual.”

The platform is empty, and they stand in a silence that Harry’s apparently in no rush to fill. He looks up and over at Louis for a moment and raises his eyebrow yet again, obviously prodding for a better explanation.

“There’s just… no one really around anymore.” 

Harry holds his gaze for another second longer before nodding and turning away, the corner of his mouth quirking. Louis follows the bob of his head and can’t help but wonder how much about him—  about “Louis Tomlinson” and One Direction—  that he actually knows. “Glad I could be of service, then.”

When the next train comes, they get into an empty car. The doors close and an automated voice announces the next stop, but neither of them make a move to sit down.

Harry stretches up, grabbing hold of the bar running above them with two sweater-covered hands. He’s bathed in harsh white light from above, ugly and brash and much too sharp. Louis can see the bags under his eyes and each and every one of the bar stains that dot and smear across his jeans. He looks tired—  maybe even as tired as Louis feels—  and Louis can’t suddenly worry that maybe he’s imposing, that he’s done—  yet again—  the wrong thing. That this poor boy was just being kind, just being polite too the stupid idiot (stupid celebrity?) who’d fallen asleep in his bar.

But then Harry leans forward on the balls of his toes and bats his eyelashes, all dramatic and goofy, and bathed in ugly white light, and the moment just cracks in two. 

“I’ve never gone home with the bartender before,” Louis suddenly says. The words slip out before he’s even really registered them, and he nearly chokes on air, rushing to explain himself. “I mean—  not that—  I didn’t mean that like— ”

He’s interrupted by Harry laughing so hard that he snorts. “Oh?” he teases, looking absolutely delighted. “And how did you mean it then?”

Louis’ head flops against the pole he’d been leaning up against. “I think I was trying for a joke. Or—  I don’t even know,” he confesses. “I think I’m just really tired. I don’t— ” he grimaces “I didn’t mean it like—   _ that. _ I know you’re just— ” 

Harry takes pity on his rambling form and cuts him off. “That tired, huh? Good thing I’ve got a bed then,” he says innocently. 

The effect is sort of cut short by Harry’s subsequent smirk, but Louis shakes his head wildly. “Yes!” he insists. “Sleep!” Not that he wouldn’t—  or would turn down— 

He just doesn’t want to come off as more of a weirdo than he probably already has this evening.

Harry winks and wiggles his eyebrows, but Louis can tell that he’s just joking around, and Louis’ been in a lot of weird places at a lot of strange times throughout the course of his life, but standing here— on this train in the middle of the night on a Tuesday in Chicago, Harry in his big gray sweater, Louis in a beat up hoodie and a pair of sneakers that could probably pay Harry’s rent for a month—  _ this _ might just be the weirdest and strangest of them all.

They stand face to face in the gap between the seats, and Harry’s smile is teasing and kind and unbelievably warm when he asks for the third time, “Are you sure you’re alright?” The train hits a curve and they both sway. Harry’s head lolls against one of his outstretched arms, and something warm and light spills out inside Louis’ chest.

It doesn’t look put on this time when Harry looks up at him from under his eyelashes, Louis thinks.

“You know what,” he says slowly, tracing the curves and slopes of Harry’s profile, of the dimples of his cheeks and each of the bags under his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

✮✮✮

Harry’s apartment is small. He’d said it was a studio, and Louis, like,  _ understood _ that, but the fact that the bed seems to triple as the sleeping space, couch, and kitchen table really puts things into perspective.

It’s kind of jarring, actually, how completely normal all of this feels. Harry’d pushed the front door open with his hip and swept his arm inside with a glowy, casual smile, and when Louis had fumbled out, “Thanks for...like, letting me come over, or whatever,” Harry had just strode on into the kitchenette and opened the fridge, tossing a surprisingly sincere, “I like the company!” over his shoulder before asking, “How do you like your eggs?”

So that’s how Louis Tomlinson ends up curled up on the foot of the bed of a stranger he’d met at a bar an hour earlier, giggling into a plate of scrambled eggs with ketchup as Harry regales him with stories about crazy customers and messed up drink orders. His eyes are starting to burn—  he thinks he might be hitting the 36 hour mark since his last full night of sleep— and he thinks the rate at which their laughter is growing and building and bouncing off of each other is probably more indicative of the hour than anything else, but when Harry sets his plate on the floor and stretches out next to him on the bed, hair mussed, grin sleepy, Louis realizes that for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t actually feel quite so alone.

“Louis,” Harry says suddenly. 

“Hm?”

He looks down and Harry’s eyes are closed, his arms crossed under his head. The clock on the wooden bedside table reads 3:58 AM.

“Just in case it wasn’t clear…” he half mumbles, voice kind of airy and low, “you’re very, very cute and all… but I didn’t just bring you here to sleep with you,” Harry says. “Just so you know.” His voice is soft, and he doesn’t open his eyes. “I just thought you looked like you needed…” He trails off, shrugging his shoulders sleepily. “I don’t know.”

It’s late, and he’s tired, and all Louis can do is think back over the past few years of his life. Of all the people he’s met and fucked and never seen again, no matter how badly he’d wanted to. Of all the people he’s met and fucked and never seen again, only to realize that they’d gotten what they wanted and were long gone before the sun had even come.

And then he thinks back to earlier in the bar. Of Harry in a black t-shirt, wrapped in dim blue light. Harry looking at him like he was an old friend that’d just called in a favor. 

“You know,” he says slowly, reaching out to rest a hand on Harry’s ankle. “That might actually be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Harry’s eyes flutter open, and Louis can tell by the crinkles in the corners that Harry’s searching his face for any trace of sarcasm. The relaxed smile that settles over his cheeks is the sort of lovely that Louis wishes he could bottle up somehow, wishes he could carry in his chest forever.

“I do what I can,” Harry chuckles, back at it again with doe eyes and goofy, fluttering eyelashes. He reaches out a hand,  grabbing onto Louis’ wrist where it’s still resting heavy on his ankle. “I’m not opposed to some lighthearted cuddling between strangers, though.”

✮✮✮

Louis startles awake in the dark to Harry’s chest plastered against his own, Harry’s curls hair in his mouth, and Harry’s crotch pressed up firm against the bare skin of his thigh.

One of Harry’s arms is smushed up between them and the other is draped over Louis’ side, his head tucked up into the curve of Louis’ neck. Hot puffs of breath fogging against his skin.

Louis jerks and then stills so quickly he feels his own breath catch, sluggish and disoriented as he feels himself fumble out of unconsciousness. Harry squirms at the movement, and his leg slips between Louis’, pushing himself farther into Louis’ skin. Rocking with it.

The rush of blood to Louis’ own cock is dizzying. 

He’s still mostly asleep, and everything is fuzzy and  _ warm,  _ and soft and close, and without thinking, he arches into it. Into Harry.

It’s hard enough to wake him, apparently. Louis feels it the second his breathing stutters and hiccups. Feels the way Harry’s body locks, the way his fingers twitch where they’re pinned between both of their sleep warm chests. 

Louis freezes, everything zooming into focus with startling clarity, and—   _ holy fuck. _

Fucking shit, what is he  _ doing? _

“Sorry,” he mutters, fully awake now. He moves to shift away, roll over, say a quick prayer to God that this is all a bad dream, and that Harry will forget he’d woken up to Louis fucking  _ humping him _ .

Not that Louis’d technically started it, but— 

Harry makes a soft, low noise and tugs at Louis’ arm, rolling him right back. 

Right back up against him.

One of his hands slips up the hem of Louis’ shirt, resting low on his hips, and he tucks his head back into the curve of Louis’ neck. Presses his lips against the dip. Breathes.

Louis can feel his heart pounding. Fuck,  _ Harry, _ can probably feel Louis’ heart pounding, and their legs snake back together, quiet and slow in the dead of the night.

And then:

“If you want it...” Harry mumbles into his skin. Louis’ hips twitch of their own accord.

“God,” he fumbles, already reaching out to press his fingers into the soft skin of Harry’s arm. “I didn’t come here for—  I really didn’t— ”

Harry cuts him off by pressing his tongue against Louis’ neck. “It’s fine,” he whispers. His voice is thick and scratchy from sleep or something else, and Louis feels his mouth starting to water. “I didn’t either—  but— ”

Louis rocks his thigh against him slowly. Questioningly.

Harry’s teeth scrape against his skin in response. 

It’s fast from there—  Louis slides his thigh all the way between Harry’s legs and pulls one of Harry’s back between his own, and it’s quick, and hot, and all in the dark, Harry’s teeth sinking further and further into the jut of Louis’ neck, only pulling off to lathe against the skin, Louis’ nails digging into the soft skin above Harry’s ass as he pulls himself off against him.

“Fuck—   _ fuck,” _ Harry grits out, and Louis can feel where his dick’s begun to soak through his briefs and into Louis’, mixing with Louis’ own precome and sweat.

They come in the dark, wound together like a knot, the only sounds Louis’ own hitching breath and Harry’s string of curses.

When it’s done they don’t move.

They go back to sleep.

Louis doesn’t wake back up again.

✮✮✮   
When Louis wakes up in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room in an unidentifiable city, none of the above is really cause for any alarm, having lived the better part of seven years sleeping more nights in a hotel room than his own home. 

In fact, laying here in this unfamiliar bed, in this unfamiliar room, in this unidentifiable city, all that  really registers is an overwhelming feeling that he is, somehow,  _ suspiciously  _ well rested.   
Like, so well rested he can feel it in his eyes and his arms and right down to his bones.

He’s also still just barely awake.

He kicks at the sheets tangled around his feet, and for another few glorious moments, everything stays hazy. It’s a wonderful thing, so he rolls over onto his stomach and snuggles down deep into the warm pillow below him, smiling the sleepy smile of a man who’s had his first R.E.M. cycle in nearly a week and fully intends to remain horizontal until someone comes searching for him.

And then, in this unfamiliar bed in this unfamiliar room in this unidentifiable city, an alarm that Louis  _ definitely _ did not set goes off. 

His eyes shoot open and a voice mumbles, “No... _ fuck…” _

He rolls over immediately, and for really only a millisecond (possibly more than a millisecond) he’s prepared to meet this own death, full expecting a murderer or a crazy fan or some horrific combination of the two.

What he’s met with, however, is a nose whacking against his own and shock of curls hitting him in the eyes, startling him so that he rolls again, this time onto his back before shooting straight up.

Harry Styles, the pretty bartender from the night before, lays blinking up at him with bright blue eyes. 

“Good morning to you too,” he says, reaching up to rub at his face.

Louis, being equal parts an idiot and half-asleep, replies, “Okay.”

And then Louis glances down, and— 

All he’s wearing are come smeared briefs and a flimsy t-shirt.

For what might actually be the better part of an eternity, they stay staring at each other, each apparently as shocked as the other that, no, apparently whatever strangeness that had transpired last night was not a dream. 

And then Harry pushes himself up and out of bed and strips off his underwear as if it’s no big thing. As if Louis’ eyes  _ aren’t _ about to fall out of his head from the sudden barrage of cock and curls and dusty upper thigh. 

Harry apparently feels the call to go commando—  _  Jesus Christ,  _ Louis has only been awake for all of two minutes. This is just _ madness—  _  and he pulls back on the same black jeans he’d kicked off right before he’d climbed into bed hours before. “I’ve got class in like twenty minutes,” he says apologetically, grabbing a button-down off the back of the single chair pushed up against the wall next to the wardrobe. “But feel free to keep crashing or whatever!”

Louis watches with wide eyes as Harry dashes into the kitchen and pops a k-cup into the little keurig on the counter while simultaneously fishing around in a box of granola bars. He stuffs one into his back pocket and grabs a magnetic pad of paper off the fridge in the corner, quickly scrawling something just as the keurig finishes his cup.

“Here,” he says brightly. “That’s my number. I’ve really gotta go, I’m so sorry. Text me if you need anything, okay?”

And then the boy of Louis’ overwrought dreams is dashing out the door without his coffee cup, only to fly back in seconds later to grab it before rushing back out again.

“It was nice to meet you!” he smiles, peeking his head back in once again just before shutting the door. “Lock the door on the way out!”

In the span of two minutes, he’s gone.

✮✮✮

It’s a little embarrassing, the length of time Louis spends staring at the number scrawled across the pad on the fridge. There’s a smiley face scribbled next to the last uncrossed 7. It’s lopsided, just loopy circles for eyes and even a little tongue.

But he stands there, bare foot on the cold tile of this relative stranger’s kitchen floor, and a jittery sort of ache unfurls in his stomach, pushing and inking at each and every edge within him that has already poked and prodded him for so long.

There’s an unmade bed behind him and two unwashed plates on the floor, and Louis is leaving this city in 24 hours. He can’t think of a single good reason to pick up the pen Harry’d left on the counter.

He does it anyways. 

It feels illegal, the way he scratches out each digit, and he does it so quickly the result is almost unintelligible. He doesn’t know what else to add, so he scratches out a smiley of his own, slashing out X’s for the eyes, and then drops the note on the counter without a second glance, sure that if he thinks for even another second he’ll tear the damn thing up.

He makes the bed as best he can (which really isn’t that great at all) and places both of the dirty plates in the sink, filling up the used pan with water to let it soak. He refuses the urge to turn back and stare at the mussed up pillows.

_ Get. A. Grip. _

He shoves his feet into his sneakers and heads out, locking the door behind him, but as he slips down the hallway, pulling his beanie back down over his hair, bits and pieces of Harry from last night keep unraveling before him on repeat. 

Harry in his sweater, smiling and patient on the street. Sleepy and soft, curled up in a ball on his own bed.

_ “I didn’t just bring you here to sleep with you, you know. You just looked like you needed…—” _

He can still feel Harry’s teeth on his skin.

The note with Harry’s number on it is tucked safe inside his back pocket. 

He’s got a flight in 24 hours. Louis tells himself he’ll never call it.

✮✮✮

He makes one more stupid move on his way home.

It’s only after he’s locked the door and exited the apartment building that he realizes he’s forgotten his hoodie inside. Regardless, he decides to go for broke—  because, honestly, why the fuck not—  and tries to take the L back again.

He gets asked for a picture within moments of entering the station. He smiles and says yes, of course. Lots of nervous laughter, and  _ thank you so much, _ and the obligatory  _ when’s the band getting back together?,  _ and then a lingering, shaky hug.

And it’s not that it’s horrible, and it’s not that it’s overwhelming. It’s not that he resents his fans, and it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate how far his career has come since he was 16 years old.

It was just nice, you know. Those twelve (Comfortable? Quiet? Normal? Wonderful?) hours with Harry. 

He walks back out again and hails the first cab he sees.

He refuses to think about Harry’s thigh between his own for the entire ride home.

✮✮✮

He gets reamed out for forty minutes upon arrival—  the hotel wasn’t even slightly difficult to find in the end—  but the nice thing about being the hand that feeds quite literally every single person that could even be vaguely upset with him is that there are no real consequences to his actions.

Other than the deep seated and vicious guilt he does his best to ignore.

“We almost reported you  _ missing _ . Do you realize that?” Paul says coldly. He’s standing five feet from the wall Louis’d thrown his phone at. 

The phone itself is nowhere to be found.

He doesn’t shout or yell, which is, obviously, much, much worse. “The only reason we knew you hadn’t been fucking kidnapped was the security footage of you wandering out on your own like a fucking five year old! Jesus fucking Christ, Lou,  _ what were you thinking?” _

He doesn’t think that  “I was bored and none of the boys were here to stop me”  is the answer that Paul’s looking for, so he just crosses his arms and tries his best to look appropriately ashamed.

“Where did you even  _ go?” _

“Eh…” Louis scratches reflexively at the back of his neck.  Paul must see something horrific in whatever’s written all over his face, and his eyes bug, huge and disbelieving. “No!” Louis says quickly, hands flying up in defense. “No, no! I just…”

Paul jerks his head expectantly. Louis can tell he’s already compiling a mental list of people he’ll have to call for whatever damage Louis’ got them all into.  _ “Lou… _ what’ve you done?” he groans lowly.

“Nothing!” Louis insists. “I just… I just met someone is all.” Thoughts of eggs and train rides and Harry’s sleepy smile float before him. He firmly pushes them to the side. “The, um.” He coughs, and settles onto the edge of the bed with his eyes glued to the floor, hoping that this’ll put the end to anymore probing questions. “The usual.”

After all that’s what it was in the end, wasn’t it? Just another quick fuck?

Except all he can see, try as he might, is that stupid sleepy smile. 

_ “I didn’t just bring you here to sleep with you, you know.” _

When he forces himself to look back up, Paul’s still staring at him skeptically—  probably mentally drawing up an NDA—  but Louis doesn’t budge. His cheeks are hot, and he can’t tell if it’s from the lie or from the truth.

Or from not knowing which is which.

Long after Paul leaves (with a final, firm  _ Do  _ not _ fucking do that again) _ , that same sleepy smile just won’t leave him alone.

✮✮✮

There’s a replacement phone waiting for him on his bed when he gets back from dinner that evening. 

He glares at it for a few moments, and then turns to go take a shower. When he’s done, it’s still there, waiting for him, and he stares at it some more. He stares at it off and on (more on, honestly, than off) until the sky turns dark and Eliza sends an assistant in to ask him if he needs help packing, since they’ll be heading straight to the airport after his round of radio bullshit in the morning. He declines politely, just as he always does, and then crams everything back into his bag unfolded, trying to remember where the hell they’re off to next.

He can feel the phone burning a hole in the back of his head whole time.

It takes him longer than it probably should, but after flicking through Netflix twice, pretending to care about Twitter, and deleting a bunch of unread emails, he finally grabs the phone and opens Whatsapp, pointedly ignoring the jeans on the floor and the note that he knows is still in one of the back pockets.

_ met a boy last night. kinda cute.  _

Zayn’s response is quick enough he must’ve already been talking with someone.

**ok?**

It’s not a rude response. You can’t have dealt with Zayn Malik’s annoying ass for seven years on a daily basis only to think that ‘ok’ is an rude response. It’s honest and real and straight to the point, is all.

Even if it is a fucking annoying.

Louis rolls his eyes, but something settles a little in his gut at the familiarity of it all.

_ is texting him worth it?  _ he types out after a moment. He hesitates before hitting send—  Zayn’s always been sort of a yes-man. But then he hits enter anyways. He immediately regrets it.

He should’ve texted Niall, he thinks. Calm, reliable Niall. (Except Niall’s actually an idiot and probably would’ve just said  _ idk wat do u think haha  _ as if it were any help at all.)

Zayn’s reply takes a little longer this time, which can only mean one of two things: he’s searching for an annoying meme to send or he’s actually, genuinely considering his response.

**end game dick or ?** he finally texts back. It’s quickly followed by a gif of Nala and Simba from the Lion King, which only just barely makes sense in context and is also incredibly unfunny. But then again, Zayn’s always been a lot lamer than the media has been led to assume.

_ ur annoying _

_ and tbh idk. _ He drops the phone on the bed and flings himself back with a huff.

All Zayn replies is, **get ittttt ;))))))** , and it’s not that it’s necessarily convincing nor exceptionally sound advice, but there’s just something very—   _normal_ about it. Like, why _shouldn’t_ Louis text back the cute boy from the bar that had taken him home to sleep last night? 

And then ended up grinding against him.

Liam could probably write out a horribly misspelled manifesto if asked, spelling out all the ways that this stranger could just use him for sex and the story and some money and the story and some retweets and  _ the story  _ and— 

That’s just stupid. 

It’s probably naive, but. Thinking of Harry, it just seems fucking stupid.

_ i think i like him a weird amount _

He raps his nails across the screen.

_ like for having only met him 1 time or w/e _

**ooook**

**so text him and get to know him????**

And then he sends a gif of two kittens snuggling together, as if that has anything today with anything. 

_ ya but is that like.. even worth it ? _

**wym**

_ u know what i mean !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! _

It takes Zayn a full minute to respond, and Louis’ left staring at the ceiling, feeling  _ very _ pitiful, thank you very much, when his phone starts vibrating with an incoming call. 

“No,” Zayn says shortly the second the line connects, “I don’t know what you mean, you idiot.” Louis groans and presses speaker, propping it up against his chin in a way which surely looks ridiculous.  _ “You  _ texted  _ me,” _ Zayn cuts him sharply. 

“Yeah, well, that was clearly a mistake…”

“Out with it.”

“I just like him is all!” Louis mumbles petulantly. “But it’s not like I’ll ever even be around. So.”

There’s a loud, staticky sigh, and then Zayn hangs up without responding, which is actually a very clear and concise message. Louis just barely refrains from blocking his number.

All the same, it’s only a matter of seconds before he rolls off the bed and scoops the jeans from the evening before from the floor, and before he can help it, he digs Harry’s note out of the back pocket.

At this point, he figures it’s stupid to pretend he’s not about to do what he’s  _ clearly _ going to do, so he stalks back over to the bed and snatches up the phone, glaring at Zayn’s latest response.

**stop overthinking it u asshole**

**let me know what happens**

**[eggplant emoji]**

Fucking, Zayn. Honestly.

The note in his hand is crinkled from being in his pocket, but when he unfolds it, it’s exactly as he’d been picturing all day.

_ 1 (847) 293 - 9447 _

And that stupid little smiley face. 

He punches in the numbers before he can talk himself out of it.

_ hi this is louis from last night. thank you so much for everything i really appreciate it. had a great time ! _

He slams the phone down face first and reaches for his laptop, fully committed to drowning himself in Netflix for the rest of the evening.

And as he sits there all alone in the dark, in this boring hotel, in this boring room, stomach churning, cheeks flushing, absolutely  _ not _ checking his phone, absolutely  _ not _ getting hard again just from thinking of the way Harry’d gasped when he came, he’s forced to admit— 

He’s not looking for heartache.

But he’s— 

He’s looking for  _ something. _

When he finally dozes off two episodes of  _ Black Mirror  _ later, he doesn’t sleep wonderfully, but it’s a whole hell of a lot better than usual.

✮✮✮

Except there’s no response in the morning, which is—  and he’s upset with himself for even feeling this way—  not…  _ exactly _ what he’d expected. 

By the time his plane lands in New York at noon, he’s decided that that’s that. End of story. End of discussion.

His stomach feels a little hollow, sure, and he’s probably not on his A-Game during rehearsals for the tomorrow’s talk show taping, but—  he pointedly ignores Zayn’s slew of  **????** that night at dinner—  that’s… Well, that’s just the way life is sometimes.

It's not like he even knows this Harry guy well enough to actually know what he's missing out on. 

Honestly, it's better off this way, anyways, he reminds himself. He doesn’t have time to entertain some stupid crush on some random student slash bartender in Chicago.

✮✮✮

1 (847) 293 - 9447:   _ sorry didnt mean to ignore that im just a lazy ass lol. and ur welcome!!! ;) _

✮✮✮

So, as it turns out, getting a response is actually as bad as no response at all. 

For one thing, the hollow feeling doesn’t go away.

Life goes back to Netflix and hotel dinners and interview after taping after meet & greet after show, and everything essentially stays the same, only now it seems like it’s all divided into two neat halves: Life Pre Harry Styles and Life Post Harry Styles.

That might be a little extreme for having spent twelve hours and a bed with a perfectly wonderful, but also truthfully unknown boy, but that’s just the place that Louis’ at these days, it seems. 

It takes all his self restraint not to text him back. His phone is full of drafts and memos in the notes app and it seems like every other day he wavers towards up and deleting Harry’s number. 

_ hi i miss you and i know thats stupid  _

_ you were the first new person to make me laugh in ages  _

_ please be my friend _

_ God, fucking shit, please, please, please let me see you again _

He doesn’t say anything at all, of course.

✮✮✮

It takes him another two days, but he finally works up the courage to respond,  _ i think i left my sweatshirt in your apartment ? _

He chain smokes half a pack of cigarettes to calm himself down after that.

✮✮✮

1 (847) 293 - 9447:  _ feel free to grab it anytime !! ;) _

✮✮✮

It’s really not creepy, the fact that he ends back up in Chicago a week and a half later, but it certainly feels that way. It’s not his fault that he’s got two days off in a row, and it’s not like he’d expected  _ this _ of all things when he’d finally caved in and explained everything (in embarrassingly explicit detail) that’d happened to Zayn. 

But either way, here he is—  just him and his security—  touching back down at O’Hare under the guise of “catching up with Zayn,” who had very graciously allowed himself to be roped into spending part of his  _ own _ precious break as Louis’ lackey.

There have been many times in Louis’ life in which he’s considered himself lucky that he’d counted Zayn as a friend before he would ever count him as just a (possibly former) bandmate, but sitting here, slumped down low in his First Class seat, he’s not quite sure this is one of them.

“Okay… so go see him again,” Zayn had said slowly the night before when Louis had given in and explained it all over Skype after much wheedling and needling and  _ why the fuck are you being so weird about this? _

He’d stared at Louis over the rim of his mug with an unimpressed look that clearly said, _this doesn’t have to be so hard_ and added, “I know I’m not, like—  one to talk, or whatever, but. You _do_ realize we’re allowed to have friends, right?” As if making and having friends with people out of the industry was anywhere _close_ to that simple. 

But that’s how Louis ends back up at the same hotel he’d checked out of a week and a half earlier, staring at the same white wall, feeling just as much like he’s about to burst out of his skin as ever.

He doesn’t throw his phone this time. He does, however, hide it under his pillows.

✮✮✮

“Hello?”

“Harry?” 

Louis’ hidden under the duvet. Like, comforter over his head, face down, phone wedged between the pillow and his ear, as if pulling the blanket over his head will somehow stamp out the nervousness tingling from his fingers to his toes, settling deep and heavy right in his gut. 

“Hi!” He says, voice overly cheerful. “It’s, um. This is Louis Tomlinson, from… from that one time.” He laughs awkwardly and clenches his eyes closed, plastering on an even bigger fake smile. “I’m, um, back in Chicago for the next two days, and I…” The words get stuck in his throat, so he sighs quietly. Steels himself. “I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for a bit?” 

There’s a noise of surprise over the line and then,  _ “Oh!” _ Louis stills. “Hey!” And—  Harry sounds… genuinely  _ excited _ to hear from him? “Yeah, sure! I’m actually on my way to work right now, but give me like an hour. I’ll call in another manager and— ”

“No, no!” Louis protests, feeling himself go red. “Sorry, I was just— ”

Harry laughs. It’s the same big, bright thing that Louis remembers. “Honestly, this is probably the best news I could’ve gotten all day. I’ve worked doubles the past three shifts in a row.” He doesn’t sound bothered or confused or creeped out at all, and Louis pulls the blanket even farther over his head, unwilling to let himself contemplate what that could mean.

“I’ll text you when I’m heading towards my place?” Harry adds, filling the empty gap where Louis should’ve said  _ cool! _ or  _ sounds good! _ or  _ ah, I would’ve been so bored, you’re a freaking life savior.  _ “Need the address again?”

Louis manages to regain control of his mouth. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks— ”

“Cool! See you then!”

And then he’s gone. Coffee in his mug, granola bar in his pocket, bed unmade, plates on the floor. Easy, easy, easy.

“See you,” Louis agrees. 

He tosses the blankets off and sits up slowly, the tiniest of smiles creeping up on him.

✮✮✮

It feels a little like he’s in middle school, bartering with his mother about the details of a hang out with friends, when his security insists not only that a Big Important Black Car take him to Harry’s apartment but also that someone stay waiting for him outside. But, after last time’s debacle, Louis knows he really only has himself to blame. 

Doesn’t mean it’s any fucking less embarrassing. 

The driver opens the back door before he’s able to get himself together enough mentally and emotionally to get out on his own. “Thank you,” he mumbles politely, praying to God that no one’s around to see. 

It’s colder than the week before, and the street in front of the brick apartment building is littered with crunchy leaves and yellowing bushes and everything he misses every time he’s stuck at his house in LA for too long. It’s late in the afternoon, and far enough into the fall that it’s already dark enough for street lamps and porch lights. He readjusts the beanie sitting low over his eyes and shoves his hands down deep into his coat pocket, scanning the buildings in front of him for the address Harry’d texted him an hour before.

1220 West Columbia.

When he spots it, the same squat brick building from two weeks before—  the same steps where they’d stopped for a moment to smoke another cigarette before going in. The same place Louis’d had to pause and regain his bearings after leaving the next morning, after his entire world had shifted a notch or two—  his stomach twists unexpectedly.

This is real. This is happening. He’s really, actually doing this. 

For one, long, paralyzing moment, he feels...

Really, incredibly young.

But then there’s Harry, swinging open the front door of his building and waving happily, standing in just his socks, coffee cup in his hand. 

“Hey!” he shouts, and Louis waves back, legs feeling a little bit like jelly. 

He’s just as pretty as he’d remembered him.

“Hey!” he call back, and the driver shuts the door behind him. 

Harry takes a sip of his coffee and grins. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come the fuck in!”

✮✮✮

“Isn’t Chicago supposed to be known for its deep dish?”

They’re sitting cross legged on Harry’s bed/table/couch, and a very thin—  and surprisingly appetizing—  pizza lies half eaten between them on its cardboard packaging.

Harry rolls his eyes. “In this household, we support and adore pizzas of all depths and flavors.” There’s a spot of sauce dotting his cheek, just above that stupid dimple of his. Louis has to sit on his fingers so that he doesn’t give into the overwhelming temptation to smudge it away.

He pitches his thigh a little just to ground himself. “Even pineapple?” he asks innocently. 

He’s full and warm and it’s like they’ve made a mutual, unspoken decision to bypass any and all awkwardness that could’ve had the chance to rear its head once the novelty of this evening wore off.

His eyes also keep darting back to Harry’s saucy dimple.

Harry frowns. “That better be a fucking joke, my friend.”

Louis just scoops up another paper thin slice, something soft and fizzy growing and spiraling through his chest with every passing moment. “I love pineapple pizza!” He absolutely does  _ not. _

Just about to take another bite, Harry’s hand smacks down to his thigh. “You mean to tell me,” he begins, playfully outraged, “that you’re in a position to eat  _ anything _ and I mean fucking  _ anything _ —  like, best food in the  _ world _ anything—  and you’re out here holding shit opinions like fucking pineapple on— ”

“It’s good!” Louis lies stubbornly. His grin’s so wide it nearly splits his face. “That and ranch,” he adds casually, just for the pleasure of seeing the way Harry’s jaw drop. “Not together, of course, but— ”

_ “Ranch!” _ Harry demands, obviously flabbergasted. He stares at Louis for a beat, fish mouthing. And then, “That’s it,” he says suddenly, springing up and dusting the crumbs off his tight (tight,  _ tight) _ jeans. “Get up. We’re getting some real fucking pizza. Right now.” He reaches for his wallet and phone on the nightstand, clearly not joking around.

Harry stands there, half grinning, half glaring, and very, very expectant, and just like that, the bubble in Louis’ chest pops. 

He feels the muscles in his face tense automatically. “...I can’t,” he says awkwardly.

There’s a beautiful boy before him, laughing and joking and inviting him for pizza, and Louis just—  

He can’t.

Harry blinks. “What do you mean?”

Louis pushes a broken off piece of crust around the top of the box. “I mean,” he sighs, “I  _ can, _ but…”

As usual, Harry doesn’t fill in the gap he leaves. It’s a little less welcome this time around.

Louis shrugs, embarrassed. “We’d have to go in the stupid car,” he says quietly. He knows how this all will sound in the end. How ungrateful. “And bring my security. And sit towards the back. And even then we’d definitely get approached a few times for pictures and stuff… there’d probably even be a small mob on the way out once the pictures spread online while we eat.”

It comes out a bit like word vomit once it starts, but he manages to stop himself before adding,  _ “and then my fans will probably say you’re my new boyfriend and dig up every vaguely offensive comment you made online when you were 14.” _ So. That’s sort of a blessing.

Harry blinks again and purses his lips. “Alright,” he nods decisively. “I’ll look up the number for delivery.”

✮✮✮

Deep dish pizza apparently takes a year and a half to make and deliver, and somewhere between the moment in which Harry puts on his favorite album ( _ “Rumours. _ Fleetwood Mac. Yes, I  _ know _ I’m unoriginal, Louis, I am  _ aware,”) _ and the moment in which they both finish their second cup of coffee, Louis decides that seeing Harry Styles again was the biggest mistake he’s ever made.

Because Harry is light and laughter and a half broken Keurig and a studio apartment with one wall entirely covered in posters (Paul McCartney, and the Spice Girls, and that stupid Leo DiCaprio version of Romeo and Juliet, amongst others.) He’s pale skin and green eyes and a smile that shows off each and every one of his top teeth. He’s the feet kicked up on Louis’ shins as if they’ve known each other for more than a morning, a few texts, and a night, and he’s the way that he considers Louis very seriously—  so, so seriously—  when he says, head resting against the wall behind his bed, “You know, I really didn’t ever think I’d see you again.”

He’s also the way Louis’ stomach flips before he admits, “To be honest… I didn’t think I would either.” 

Louis’ only ever written songs about infatuation. 

He can now say for sure that, before this very moment, he’d gotten it all wrong.

Harry’s feet shift over Louis’ legs as he turns, angling himself so that he’s all but curled up on his side, face half smushed against the pillow he’d wedged between his back and the wall. “Why?” 

“Why what?” Louis responds immediately. It’s only a little evasive.

Harry rolls his eyes and pinches the skin peeking out from the gap between Louis’ jeans and socks. “Why didn’t you think you’d call?”

He doesn’t think there’s any good way to spell out  _ because I’m a celebrity and you’re a normal person, and I am aware of how awful that sounds, but it’s the truth, and I almost wish I hadn’t come here because you’re as sweet and attractive as I remember, and there’s just no way this is going to work out. _

Instead, he says, “My plane leaves tomorrow morning…”

Harry’s nose wrinkles, but it’s over so quick it’s easier to pretend that he’d just imagined it.

✮✮✮

He keeps tracing it all, flicking through each and every second of this over and over in his mind, but it’s useless. 

One second Harry was staring up at him, all green eyes and sweet smiles, half laying down, half lounging on the bed. And that was  _ fine _ , that was okay because it’s his bed, isn’t it? He’s free to sit however he likes. Even if it means that his hair keeps brushing over Louis’ upper arm, forcing out goose bumps. Even if it means that his socked feet keep kicking at him, toes digging into Louis’ shins with every bubbling shock of laughter. That’s  _ fine. _

What’s not fine is how Louis somehow followed him, inch by inch, breath by breath, until he’s right here, spread on his side besides Harry so they’re eye level again, feet now tangled, chests nearly touching. All he can smell is coffee and soap and something somehow fruity, drifting and weaving around him, and he doesn’t know how he got here. When was the final leap that barrelled him into this.

Harry’s eyes have a ring of golden brown around the edges, Louis notices. He’s starting to feel like ten types of helpless.

Harry smiles lazily. “I really like your new song,” he says after a moment. Louis laughs in response, and the movement knocks his hands against Harry’s chest. He takes the opportunity to let his fingers softly wind into the front of his shirt.

“Yeah?”

“Sure,” Harry nods. “My sister and I were huge fans way back when so…” He shrugs, and Louis laughs again.

It takes a lot of effort, but he musters up his coldest frown. “So what?” he deadpans. “Got too cool for boybands but came back when the solo stuff made us safe again?” He even raises a haughty eyebrow—  really tries to give it the full effect—  but it’s useless. Harry blinks, and the green and gold and brown just sends Louis spiraling—  smiling—  before he can help it.

“No!” Harry protests, laughing just as loudly. “No! I was just—  I got busy, I don’t know. I’m really bad at keeping up with that sort of thing. I just… I don’t know, I go through phases and stuff.” He sniffles, and another hiccupping giggle escapes. “So, like, I get fixated on one specific thing, and everything else is just…” He flops his head back against the pillow a little bit, his neck stretching out, long and white and smooth. “Kind of fades to the background...”

Louis thinks it before he says it. “So what’s the current fixation?” 

He wishes he were strong enough to keep himself from drawing a line up the skin of Harry’s forearm, but he isn’t, and he does, and it’s smooth—  Harry’s skin—  smooth and soft. The thin hairs stand up straight in the wake of Louis’ fingertip, so he watches them spring up because it’s easier than watching whatever might be playing out across Harry’s face.

It’s not that he’s expecting it when Harry leans in and he grabs him by the neck of his shirt and hauls him in close. 

When he keeps him there with his mouth.

But it happens so quickly there’s not enough time to be surprised: one instant there’s just heavy air and some sort of question lingering between them. The next, all there is skin. Harry’s hands on his neck, and their rucked up shirts letting their stomachs press together. The way their feet stay tangled, and their ankles slide against each other as Harry rolls himself over, laying himself out as if he can’t stand it any longer—  being so close, but still too far. 

It’s disorienting, and for one wild moment, it’s as if Louis’ in one of those strange alternate lives he always used to dream of because this doesn’t  _ happen _ to him anymore. He doesn’t just find beautiful, kind,  _ sweet, sweet _ boys who want to kiss him and cuddle with him and order in deep dish pizza.

But then Harry’s hands are at the zipper of his jeans, and this is very much real and this boy is very much here. 

Harry’s fingers drag across the skin just above his waistband, and Louis feels his chest actually shudder, like he’d taken two breathes without ever exhaling. “I still didn’t…” Harry mumbles, pulling away from Louis’ mouth just a bit—  just a millimeter, as if he can’t bear to be too far, “I still didn’t bring you here just to— ”

“I know,” Louis cuts him off, mashing their mouths back together.

And this is disaster, Louis knows. He’s well aware that this is stupid and useless and more trouble than it could ever be worth, because he’s leaving tomorrow morning and it’s evident now that kissing Harry isn’t something that he could do for a period of time any shorter than forever.

But there’s no way to take it all back, so Louis just kisses him harder, let’s Harry sink his teeth into his lip and tug down his jeans. 

It’s going too fast—  it’s all slipping between his fingers, and he’s starting to panic that it’ll be over too soon—  so when Harry stumbles off the bed, trying to strip as quickly as he can, face pink and eyes wide, looking like he’s about ready to fall apart, Louis grabs him by the wrist and pulls him back down. Harry falls back onto the bed easily, and for a moment they just lay there—  Louis with his jeans at his ankles and Harry with only one arm out of its sleeve. 

Louis swallows, heart pounding. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning” He can’t help but feel like he’s begging. 

But Harry’s there, staring at him with those gold, green, brown eyes, and he gets it, Louis knows. When he nods and leans back in—  letting their lips touch without pressing, letting just the moisture from their breath wet their skin—  Louis knows that he gets it.

He helps Harry out of his shirt, and his hair gets tangled at the top. He’s sitting there, arms above his head, yelping and laughing and struggling to get free, and Louis knows he should take pity, but he just pushes him onto his back instead and lays a line of kisses down his stomach, and thinks to himself, I wish I had been lucky enough to have met you when it mattered.

Harry cackles and his knees come up to kick at Louis just as he licks over Harry’s belly button, pushing him away as he pulls off the shirt. “You’re a menace,” he grins, and well, there’s no denying that, is there really? 

It’s fun, is the thing. Whatever had happened the night that they’d met had been hot and quick—  biting and grinding and sleepiness and  _ dirty. _ But this—  Harry pinning him down, planting kisses across his jaw, making it across only to laugh loudly in his ear. Louis smacking Harry’s thigh with a groan when he realizes he’s gone fucking commando yet  _ again—  _  this is fun.

And Louis’ not sure how much more he can take.

It’s only when he’s splayed out on his back, Harry sliding down to fit himself between his knees, that Louis’ heart starts to slow down. Because he knows this part, he frantically tells himself. Head is head, and this is the part he should be able to just lay back and enjoy.

But then he risks a glance down and Harry’s beaming up at him, Louis’ cock resting lightly against his cheek, and, well—   _ no. _ No matter what, Louis is fucked.

Harry must see that—  of course he does. He always does, doesn’t he?—  and he laughs again before licking right up Louis’ dick, eyes on Louis the whole fucking time.  _ “Jesus Christ,”  _ Louis groans.

Harry swallows in the end, beaming and panting and looking a little like he’s so worked up he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so Louis hauls him up by the arms and pushes him back so that he can return the favor.

It’s just not fair, he thinks to himself afterwards—  after they’ve kissed themselves back to Earth. After they’ve cleaned up and had a snack and ended up kissing some more—  it’s just  _ not fair. _

This type of sex—  good and hot and panting and sticky and, above all, fucking  _ fun?  _ That type of sex? The kind that should be the beginning of something, that should just be the gateway into a future so unforgettable?

It’s not fair that  _ this,  _ this right now—  Harry squished up next to him, one arm under Louis’ head, the other intertwining Louis’ fingers with his own—  it’s not fair that all it feels like goodbye.

✮✮✮

He doesn’t let himself stay the night.

“Harry?” he whispers. They’re still laying together on the bed/table/couch, only now there’s a half eaten deep dish pizza on the edge of the mattress, reruns of Golden Girls on in the background, and Harry curled up on his tummy, fast asleep next to him.  _ “Harry?” _

Harry blinks awake after a moment, all drowsy and sleepy pink, and he sighs a little as he stares up at Louis, smile starting to grow.

Louis definitely has to leave.

“I’ve gotta go…” he says, voice just as soft as before, like it can’t get any louder, like if it did everything around them would shatter. Not that it won’t either way.

Harry’s eyebrows knit together, and Louis just wants to already be gone because the actual leaving might actually be impossible.

“You’ve got a plane in the morning,” Harry supplies with the tiniest of nods. He pushes himself up so that he’s sitting, and Louis wishes that out of all the things he’ll never get to learn about Harry, that the way he looks when he’s steeling himself was one of them.

“I’ve got a plane in the morning,” he agrees. It’s easiest to just let his eyes cast down. 

Harry flops back onto the mattress and promptly rolls over, ducking his face into a pillow. “Can we switch it around?” he asks, voice muffled.

There are pins in Louis’ fingers, pricking him over and over with how badly he wants to reach out, wants to run his nails down the soft skin of Harry’s back. “What do you mean?”

“Can we switch it?” Harry tilts his face just a bit, letting the words ring clear, soft and sad as they are. “Can this be the part where you ask me to give it a shot, and I tell you that I don’t want to try?”

_ “Harry— ” _

But Harry just shakes his head, exhaling hard through his nose, and forces out a sorry excuse for a smile. It’s barely even a grimace. “I know,” he says and sits back up. “I know.”

His cheeks are still pink and his hair is a mess, and Louis just wants so badly to be already gone. “I just want to—  I just want to remember you like this,” he squeezes out. _ I want to remember you here in this bed, _ he thinks, _ with your terrible Romeo and Juliet poster across from us and a half eaten pizza on the bed. I don’t want to remember drifting and failing and losing this to that.  _

“I know,” Harry repeats. “I just… I wish you weren’t already gone.”

✮✮✮

Harry comes in the car with him on the way back, which is right up there as one of the worst decisions Louis thinks he’s ever made. It’s probably only second behind going home with Harry that first night, he thinks, too sad to even be bitter.

They sit together in the back of the car, knees pressed together, music on low, and if there’s ever been a less sexy time to say, “Partition, please,” Louis would very much like to know. 

Harry lays his head on Louis’ shoulder.

“I’m glad that out of all the bars in Chicago that you could’ve fallen asleep and nearly gotten yourself killed in, it was mine.”

✮✮✮

  1. Tour is starting in two months
  2. You will be on the road constantly
  3. You will be in different time zones most of the time!!!!
  4. How will you ever see him????
  5. He is a student
  6. You can’t just fly him out whenever you want
  7. He’s also a boss of his work
  8. You cannot just fly him out whenever you want
  9. Fame + Not Famous People ALWAYS ENDS BADLY AND YOU KNOW THIS AND IT IS NOT EGOTISTICAL TO THINK THIS WAY IT IS LOGICAL
  10. You hardly know him
  11. You hardly know him
  12. You hardly know him
  13. You hardly know him
  14. You hardly know him
  15. You hardly know him



✮✮✮

He said goodbye to Harry an hour ago. There weren’t any tears. There wasn’t any sniffling. There wasn’t any begging or persuading or  _ maybe someday? _

But Harry looked hurt. Even said he did his best to smile and say goodbye. Even as they kissed and Louis found himself mumbling, “I wish— ” only to realize what he was saying and cut himself off.

It almost made it worse, he thinks. The fact that Harry was so kind in the end. That he didn’t make it any worse, didn’t fight, didn’t try to make a big scene. It would’ve been easier to push someone away than to quietly just let them go.

He thinks of Harry at the bar, of the way he’d just opened his arms and let Louis into his life like he’d been waiting for something or someone so ridiculous to come along. 

He thinks of his apartment, and he thinks of the bed/couch/table, and the way Harry’s hair always spilled wild over the pillows. How it always ended up in his mouth.

And he thinks of the ride back.

Of letting go of someone like Harry.

And so he sits there in this hotel room, and it’s the same brand of pristine, the same ocean of white, as it was this morning—  as it was two weeks ago—  and he asks himself:

Can you really say that none of that was worth it? 

✮✮✮

He said goodbye to Harry an hour and five minutes ago. Apparently that was all he could take.

_ “Louis?”  _

“I don’t want to be stuck thinking about you a year from now.” Louis’ ear hurts where the phone presses into it, hard and shaking. “I know this is a disaster, and I’m sorry for calling like this, but— ”

“Lou— ”

“I’ll never be around,” he pushes on, words falling from his mouth one after another. “I’ll be everywhere all the time, and I’ll barely be able to call, and you’ll get sick of it. I promise you’ll get sick of it— ”

“Louis— ”

“And you’ll see why people always say that they’d never want to be famous. You’ll see that, and you’ll want to lea— ”

_ “Louis.” _

He stumbles to a stop, and he can feel his pulse thrumming, quick and unsteady in his neck. “Yeah?”

Harry’s laugh is quick and maybe a little bit frantic, even over the phone. “I don’t want to be stuck thinking about you a year from now either.”

Louis swallows. “...yeah?”

“Let’s do it.”

“This might go up there on my list of bad decisions,” he says softly, phone still digging into his year.

“Only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

✮✮✮

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've ever enjoyed anything that I've ever written and are in a position to be generous, considering donating a literal dollar or two to the [venmo](http://venmo.com/MaryClare-Zimmermann) of this poor grad student, high school teacher, and aspiring Pacific Coast Trail hiker (5 month hikes are expensive. Who knew!) It would mean the absolute world. Thank you!


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